


Stories We Tell

by lazarov



Series: Caught You [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fillory (The Magicians), M/M, Mentions of Suicide, angst and fluff in equal portions, eliot and quentin go on a quest, mentions of hospitalization, mentions of self harm, post-coital conversations, the mosaic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: The Mosaic takes longer than anticipated. Quentin and Eliot tell each other stories about life back in the Real World to pass the time.Chapter One:Quentin tells Eliot about the hospital.Chapter Two:Quentin and Eliot go on a quest.





	1. Tell Me About the Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> The same 'verse as Caught You, but also kind of its own thing.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Five hundred and twenty seven days had passed, and the mosaic was not yet solved.

Quentin lay in the crook of Eliot’s arm, tangled against him in the small bed within their small shack. The crickets chirped outside, and the evening air was humid and warm, and they still believed that any day their quest would be complete. They would find exactly the right combination of design and colour, snatch up the key, and hop into a magic portal-or-whatever that would transport them back to Earth where hardly enough time would have passed for anyone to notice they were ever gone at all.

Soon they’d get back to their lives—their _real_ lives. And so, each privately convinced that it wouldn’t be long before they woke up again, they were content to share this strange reverie, love-drunk on each other out of convenience (but also a long-unspoken longing, too). Because it wasn’t real.

It didn’t _count_.

But fuck, Eliot was glad for every moment while it lasted.

Naked as naked gets, Quentin stretched beside him, legs shamelessly splayed open like a content Golden Retriever. Goosebumps dotted the tanned skin of his chest, raised by the slight breeze from the window and just barely visible in the lamplight.

Not wanting to ruin the mood, but emboldened by the sight of him (and maybe thanks to the opium in Fillory’s atmosphere), Eliot pressed a kiss to Quentin’s damp forehead and asked, “Will you tell me about the hospital?”

His voice was sleepy with dandelion wine. It was late, and they had long since given up on the mosaic for the night after a very long day spent bickering and hunched over tiles in the hot sun.

“The hospital?”

Okay, it was almost certainly the wrong moment. Still, Eliot was surprised to see the way Quentin bristled at the question; as topics went, he had pried about _way_ touchier ones than this.

“You don’t have to,” Eliot hummed, apologetic. He nosed against Quentin’s temple. “Just wanted to know, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” said Quentin softly, in a tone of voice that didn’t suggest that it was particularly okay but that he was willing to humour him.

One of Quentin’s hands found its way to Eliot’s chest hair. He dragged his fingers through it, tracing pensive patterns for a while, before twisting his head up to press a kiss to Eliot’s jaw.

Looking him in the eyes, Quentin prodded him on: “Come on, then. What do you want to know?”

There was very little in the way of entertainment in Fillory. Occasionally (and in Fillory, “occasionally” meant once every few months if you were lucky), a travelling band of performing bears would pass by. The mosaic fell along their regular route, and Quentin and Eliot would flag their caravan down and pay them in cash and homemade jerky to perform the season’s latest one-act Orgswerg play.

(Orgswerg was like the Shakespeare of Fillory, in the sense that he was obsessed with murder and puns and overwrought villainry, and also he was the only playwright anyone seemed to give a single shit about.)

Neither Quentin nor Eliot gave a flying fuck about any of the plotlines or soliloquoys but sitting cross-legged in the grass together and watching a group of speaking Grizzly bears in intricate costumes deliver melodrama that would give The Bold and the Beautiful a run for its money wasn’t the worst way to spend an hour (and a small fortune in coppers). Especially not when their only other option was to continue to stare at and argue over the same multicoloured tiles they had spent the last week, month, year staring at and arguing over.

Since entertainment was so scarce, they’d taken to asking each other for stories from each others’ lives as they fiddled with the mosaic. Usually touchy and overly-personal ones, because, well, those were way more fun.  

It was a game Quentin had inadvertently invented one day by asking, casually and while mulling over the placement of a turquoise tile, about “that kid [Eliot] telekinetically murdered with a school bus.” It was blunt and inappropriate and Eliot _loved it_. Shortly after, he countered by asking about Quentin’s first masturbatory experience, and a new hobby was forged: their primary form of entertainment, just-nostalgic-enough to keep them sane and tethered to their lives on Earth.

_Tell me about the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you._

_Tell me about the worst thing you ever said to someone._

_Tell me about the biggest lie you ever told._

_Tell me about the first person you ever hated._

Eliot told Quentin about the first time he had ever kissed a boy: Jake Ellis, who was tall and handsome and who dumped his carton of chocolate milk over Eliot’s head the next time he tried to speak to him at school.

About coming out to his dad and receiving a punch to the jaw so vicious that he was still missing a molar, right at the very back on the top right side.

About the time he got rufied at a party thrown by an older, cooler boy he desperately wanted to impress, and woke up unsure of what had happened—he never did find out for sure, but there were Sharpied-on drawings of cocks scribbled on the skin of his back that he didn’t find until days later, and finger-shaped bruises on the insides of his thighs that he found right away.

Quentin told Eliot about the moment when, nine years old and blowing out the candles at his birthday party, he realized for the first time and with absolute certainty that his mom was never coming back.

He told Eliot about taking two bottles of Advil with half a bottle of Kahlua in a wayward teenage suicide attempt and waking up to find that he was alive, and late for school, and that he’d filled one of his Converse sneakers with vomit and pissed his pants in his sleep.

Quentin wiped away tears of embarrassed laughter as he recounted trying to balance the shoe to keep from spilling any puke on the floor as he carried it to the hallway bathroom to dump the mess in the toilet, and having to lie to his dad about why he needed money for new shoes, even as Eliot watched him with an expression that made it clear that he didn’t find it funny.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom one-upmanship; they told each other sweet, funny stories, too. Intimate ones. Important ones.

But tonight, Eliot wanted to know about the hospital.

He'd desperately wanted to know since the very moment Quentin had mentioned it: manic in the garden, waving a cigarette around and explaining to Eliot how certain he was that being kicked out of Brakebills was functionally equivalent to the end of the world. _And then I got here and was amazed that I survived as long as I did not knowing that I was a magician_. The irony of those words were not lost on Eliot. They were fresh in his mind, months later, when Quentin was finally asleep and Eliot was alone in the creaking Cottage, scrubbing Quentin’s blood from in between bathroom tiles. With Quentin's blood pushed deep under his fingernails, staining his knees, swiped across his forehead where he'd tried to brush his hair out of his eyes.)

“How many times have you been admitted?” Eliot asked.

Quentin pretended to count on both hands and then reached for his right foot before Eliot smacked him gently on the bicep. “Twice,” he said, laughing at the exasperated look on Eliot’s face. “Wait—no. Three times. I almost forgot about the one right before Brakebills.”

“How old were you the first time?”

“Sixteen? I think.”

“Why were you admitted?”

Quentin held his breath for a moment, gauging the right words for the moment. He settled on the most basic version of the truth: “I told my dad I wanted to kill myself.”

Eliot didn’t know how to respond; what the fuck else kind of answer was he expecting? Brushing Quentin’s hair out of his face and tucking it neatly behind his ear, he said: “That was brave of you.”

Quentin shrugged.

“Was it before the Advil and Kahlua?”

“A few months after.”

“What was the hospital like?”

“The first time?”

“Any of the times.”

Quentin nodded and took a moment to think, one hand still mindlessly tangling and untangling itself in Eliot’s chest hair. Finally, he said, “I don’t remember very much about the first time, except for being so fucking angry at my dad, and at everyone who worked there. I thought he, like, _betrayed_ me by checking me in.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

“No,” Quentin said without hesitation. “Definitely not— _fuck_. He did the right thing.” He frowned and scratched his head, “I should probably tell him that. You know, when we get back.”

 _When_. Not ‘if.’ Eliot appreciated the optimism, even though he was beginning to have his doubts.

“What was the second time?”

Quentin hummed. “Classic ‘college freshman emotional breakdown’ stuff.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Winter break after the first semester of undergrad, my brain went on the fritz. I couldn’t eat or sleep and almost dropped out of school. Everything just felt like… it all just felt like so much, you know? I barely survived finals, and right after my last exam Julia loaded me into a cab and brought me to the hospital.”

“Voluntarily?” asked Eliot, half-joking.

“Oh, yeah, totally.” Quentin chuckled. “She didn’t hog-tie me or anything; it was all pre-arranged. She didn’t want me to fuck up my future, so she kept an eye on me all week then helped me pack a bag and waited outside with it like my nanny while I wrote my Anthro final. I think I got an A on that fucking exam, actually—something about knowing hospitalization was only two hours away made me slip into this, like, zen headspace.”

“Knowing you’d be able to let go?” asked Eliot.

“Yeah, exactly,” Quentin nodded. “Up until that point my whole body was like a clenched fist,” he closed his fist tight and held it up for emphasis, “like, literally, I was _sore_ all the time from just trying to keep it together and not totally destroy myself. So, going to the hospital, I could just”—he released his grip, stretching his fingers out wide, and even in the low light Eliot could see the little white half-moons pressed into his palms—“let someone else worry about keeping me alive for a while. Someone who wasn’t my dad, or Julia, or...”

Quentin laughed hollowly at Eliot’s raised eyebrow and rolled his eyes, “It’s different, _easier_ , I guess, when they’re getting paid to keep me from, like, hanging myself in my closet between my sweaters. Doesn’t come with quite the same kind of ‘woe is me, I’m a burden on everyone I love’ guilt when you're being babysat by mental health professionals.”

Eliot knew that Quentin was trying to be funny, but his words conjured an image so vivid and horrible in Eliot’s mind that it took a while before he stopped feeling like he was going to vomit.

It wasn’t the first time he’d imagined finding Quentin dead. It was an idea that had dug its tendrils into the corners of his mind, growing and feeding on his fear, ever since the night he’d found Quentin with his veins opened up all over the bathroom floor.

Since then, he’d imagined it so many times, in so many ways.

Sometimes he would catch himself walking toward his closet and reaching for the ruined sleeve of his button-down, stained coppery-orange with Quentin’s faded blood. He hadn’t managed to rinse it in time to save the fabric, and the stain was too obvious for him to ever be able to wear it again, but Eliot couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the shirt. It haunted his closet, shoved near the back but still accessible enough that Eliot could easily reach for the cuff to run his fingers along the mottled edge of the bloodstain.

They were quiet for a long time, listening to the sound of the breeze in the oaks and the rabbits whispering to each other in the garden outside their window. Quentin’s eyes were closed, and Eliot resisted the urge to pull him closer.

He couldn’t risk making Quentin feel self-conscious.

He needed Quentin to keep talking.

Eliot allowed himself to press another kiss to the top of Quentin’s head and to reach for Quentin's hand, threading their fingers together. Quentin let out a contented sigh and opened his eyes again. Though Eliot couldn’t fully see Quentin’s expression, he could tell that there were tears in the corners of his eyes. One threatened to break free, but Quentin wiped it away before it could escape.

“Anyway, the hospital kind of uniformly sucks. Everyone is weird and miserable, you’re constantly being watched. I would sleep so much, just to avoid having to think about where I was, or why.” Quentin chewed on the corner of his lip. “But even with all the parts that sucked, it was so incredible to be able to just _hand over_ this overwhelming urge to hurt myself. I could give it to the doctors like I was delivering the world’s shittiest pizza, like, ‘here, this is your problem now.’”

Eliot wondered, lead in his belly, if Quentin thought of himself as Eliot’s problem. With their fingers still intertwined, Eliot lifted their hands to press a kiss to the soft spot between Quentin’s thumb and index finger. The smattering of little scars on his hands were more visible these days, against the tan Quentin had developed after a year ( _almost two years_ , Eliot reminded himself) of working outside under the Fillorian sun.

“What about the last time?” Eliot asked. His thoughts finished the question for him: _The time before Brakebills. The time before I met you._

Quentin shrugged. “I wanted to kill myself again.”

He said it the way you’d say ‘I stubbed my toe’ or ‘I had to renew my driver’s license.’ Same old, same old. His tone was so casual that it took a little while for his words to properly register in Eliot’s mind.

“So I checked myself in for the weekend for a little, y’know, brain tune-up.” Quentin snorted a small laugh. He sniffed and wiped at any straggler tears and nipped playfully at the soft inside of Eliot’s bicep. “Like an oil change.”

“Your brain is a temperamental Miata?” 

Quentin feigned offence before conceding, “Eh, basically. A lemon full of bum parts. Should’ve traded it in for a Honda when I had the chance.”

“I like your brain,” Eliot said quietly, deliberately choosing not to give a fuck about how mawkish it sounded. He took Quentin’s face in his hands and kissed him deeply. “I wish your brain didn’t give you such a hard fucking time all the time, but I like the things that are inside of it.”

“Thanks,” said Quentin, giving Eliot an extra peck on the cheek before rolling off of the edge of the bed and standing up. He stretched his arms toward the sky and rolled his shoulders to work the kinks out of his muscles with a massive yawn. “I like your brain too. Can we talk about something else now?”

Eliot rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow to admire him in the dim, flickering lamplight. “Of course we can.” Truth be told, he was shocked the conversation had gone on as long as it did without Quentin getting cagey and resorting to one-word answers.

“Cool.” Quentin pulled on a pair of what passed for sweatpants in Fillory: loose, rough-hewn trousers with a drawstring tie. He wore them slung low on his hips, leaving the trail of hair below his belly button exposed.

Fillory had an effect on Quentin. Eliot wasn’t sure whether it was the sun, or the straight-in-your-veins mainline of magic, or the fresh air (or, again, the opium), but he looked healthier than Eliot had ever seen him. There was a glow to his skin that never existed back in New York and, as far as Eliot knew, or could tell, Quentin hadn’t hurt himself since they’d arrived. Still, the fear was like a black fly, knocking around the inside of his skull and emitting a constant low-level buzz that he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried.

“You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” Eliot said.

It jumped out of him, like a slippery fish escaping his grasping hands. There were other things Eliot wanted to say, but he managed to keep them locked down:

_You’re beautiful._

_I love you._

_Y_ ou’re _all I have, so don’t you fucking dare hurt yourself and leave me alone out here._

But he left it at that, because Quentin was already laughing at him (kindly, but laughing at him nonetheless) and moving toward the corner of the shack that passed for their kitchen.

“Uh-huh,” said Quentin. He leaned down to fling open their heavy, creaky cupboards. Digging around for a moment, he pulled out dull a pair of seaglass-blue jars filled with dried bark and chamomile flowers. “Can I interest you in some tea, or are you sticking with wine? The dandelion hooch’s got you all sentimental tonight,” he teased.

All the while, Eliot could tell that Quentin was trying to hide the smile on his flushed face.

It had been five hundred and twenty-seven days, and Eliot was fairly certain that he could happily spend an entire lifetime in Fillory. In this shack, with Quentin, and the rabbits in the garden, and the crickets on their doorstep, and that beautiful fucking smile. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Quentin was right: he was sentimental tonight, and he was willing to wear it proudly, like a crown. 


	2. Tell Me About Your Childhood

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

“Come on, bitch. We’re going questing.”

“Jesus Christ," Eliot groaned, but Quentin just stood there, grinning at him with a rucksack slung over his shoulder and one boot on, stoically ignoring Eliot’s sleep-crusted eyeroll. “It’s the morning. Nobody should be awake yet. Can you just— _chill out_?”

“Nope,” said Quentin lightly. He kicked out one leg, the one with a scuffed, brown leather boot already on the end of it. “Have you seen my other boot?”

“No,” said Eliot. It was a lie.

He stuffed a pillow over his face to block out the highbeam-bright morning light and the unfuckingbelievable ruckus Quentin was making as he searched in and around furniture, weaving around their small shack, babbling at him all the while: “It’ll be fun, El. I went into town to buy bread and meat—from Kinessa, you remember Kinessa? And I got a bottle of wine, so, there’s that. _Where the fuck—_ ”

“Kinessa is a talking fucking goat, Quentin,” grumbled Eliot from underneath the pillow. “Of course I remember Kinessa.”

“— _anyway_ , I packed us a picnic. We can make a whole day out of it.” Quentin lifted the pillow from Eliot’s face. “Humour me?”

Reluctantly, Eliot opened his eyes and glowered at him. “Fine.”

“Where’s my boot?”

Eliot threw out one arm and pointed toward the entryway. “Under the chair.”

“Thank you,” said Quentin. He planted a kiss at the corner of Eliot’s mouth, then dropped the pillow back onto his face.

It was amazing that Quentin even managed to lose a boot in their maddeningly tiny shack, especially considering each of them owned approximately two pairs apiece.

Their shoes from Back Home wore out months ago; Eliot mourned his John Varvatos high-buff ankle boots for days— _weeks—_ after the soles finally packed it in. Not that it really mattered, in the scheme of things. They didn’t have much use for shoes these days. Most of the time, they padded around the mosaic barefoot or, if it was particularly chilly, in leather slippers made by the cobbler elves nearby.

(“Keebler elves?” “ _Cobbler_ elves. Shoes, not cookies.”).

“Please don’t misinterpret this as me expressing any interest whatsoever in joining you for what I can already tell is going to be a very long hike, but—what’s the quest?”

Underneath the hair falling in Quentin’s face as he laced up his boot, Eliot could see a grin pull at the corner of his mouth. “That’s for me to know—”

Eliot held up a hand. “If you say ‘and for you to find out,’ so help me God I will murder you. And you’re aware that we are quite literally—at this very moment in time—currently on a quest?”

Quentin shrugged. “S’pose so, El. But I think we can fuck off for a day without derailing all of the progress we’ve failed to make over the last year.” He stood up and pulled the rucksack back on, and Eliot could see that it was lumpy and bulging, almost bursting at the seams with provisions.

“One final question,” said Eliot quickly.

He could sense the invitation withering in the air between them: Quentin already had his hand on the door and Eliot realized that there was a distinct possibility that any second he was going to quick humouring Eliot’s attempts at endearing complaining and venture out on his own. He raised an eyebrow at Eliot: _one last question, eh?_

Eliot cleared his throat and asked, lightly, “So, uh. What kind of wine is it, then?”

Quentin grinned at him, pleased that Eliot had fallen straight into his trap. Fine. Maybe, sure, whatever, _technically_ maybe he had _._

But it had been weeks since he’d had a bottle of wine in his grubby, desperate hands, and Eliot would much rather think of himself as a willing victim, _thank you very fucking much_.

 

* * *

 

They picked their way through the forest at a pace that was just-languid-enough to prevent Eliot from complaining. Or, more accurately, to keep him from complaining _too much_.

It wasn’t a long walk to the spring, barely even an hour at the pace they were keeping. Still, a base-level amount of complaining was to be expected.

“Tell me about the weirdest crush you ever had?” asked Quentin.

He took a sip of cold barley tea from the jug they passed back and forth as they walked through the dense forest, and a small rivulet escaped from the corner of his mouth, running to the tip of his chin. Eliot watched as Quentin wiped it away, his lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed in the warm summer heat.

He wondered if Quentin would let him fuck him in the forest, rough and quick, moans echoing into the depths of the forest for only the rabbits and the birds to hear. Then Quentin would be utterly spent, and Eliot wouldn’t have to do any more hiking, totally guilt-free.

It was a nice thought.

Eliot considered the question. “Real-life or celebrity?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

“Okay, easy one. David Duchovny, final answer.” Truth be told, he’d been waiting _months_ for Quentin to ask. Eliot may have also been pandering, _just a little_ : the amused smirk on Quentin’s face suggested he was well aware and didn’t half mind.

“Which Duchovny era, though?” asked Quentin brightly. “Because that’s key. Are we talking, like, young, baby-faced Duchovny? Or older, slightly-washed-up-grizzled sex-addict Duchovny?”

“Are you kidding?” Eliot scoffed, placing a hand over his heart. “Early X-Files, when he had floppy hair and was the ultimate nerd sex symbol.” Quentin nodded sagely: it was the right answer. Urged on, Eliot went for gold: “You know, in retrospect, it was probably an early sign that hot dorks hold the key to my heart.”

“Ouch,” said Quentin. Slyly, Eliot elbowed him in the ribs and offered him the jug of tea.

“Shush,” he said. “You know it’s a compliment.”

Quentin smiled and avoided Eliot’s gaze, lest he see the blush creeping into his cheeks. “I don’t think that counts as a weird crush—you know, sex symbol status and all that.”

A shrug: “Look, Coldwater, your job is to ask the questions and my job is to provide the answers. I don’t think you get to place a value judgment on my sense of weird.” Beside him, Quentin scoffed. “Anyway, who’s yours?”

“Angela Lansbury,” said Quentin, wincing.

“Oh,” said Eliot. He pulled a face. “That’s actually pretty weird.”

“Guess that means I win.” Quentin smirked, before—“ _Jesus, fuck_ ”—hooking his toe in an exposed loop of tree root and eating it, _hard,_  on the forest floor. “Damn it,” he hissed, scrambling in the leaves to get his bearings. There were leaves in his hair, his rucksack had gone straight over his head, the dead weight of it yanking him ass over teakettle like an anchor.

“You okay?” Eliot asked, doing his very best not to laugh. He reached a hand out to help Quentin off, then helped him pick leaves out of his hair. Then, Eliot _remembered_ : his voice lowering, concern darkening his features, Eliot whispered: “Is the wine okay?”

“The wine’s fine, asshole. Lucky for you, my skull broke its fall. I, on the other hand, am probably concussed but otherwise mostly okay.” Quentin examined his hands: his right palm had an impressive scrape, and pinpricks of blood were just beginning to dot the angry red skin. “Just a gnarly scratch.”

Eliot peered at the damage. “Want me to patch you up?” He readied his hands with a simple spell—the magic version of a Band-Aid, not much more than an invisible shield against germs and dirt.

“No,” Quentin said quickly. “I’m all good.”

“Suit yourself.” Eliot leaned down to retrieve the jug of tea, which had suffered the worst fate in the fall and was presently glug-glugging the remainder of its contents into the sun-dried forest floor. He gave the jug a wiggle: there was barely enough for a couple swigs left sloshing around. “Are we going to die of thirst?”

Quentin rolled his eyes and started walking again, calling over his shoulder: “We’re like… ten minutes away. Max.”

Eliot jogged to catch up with him. “Well, on that note. Tell me about your best schoolyard injury?”

“Oh! I have a story for you.” Eliot raised his eyebrow. “In third grade, I got into a fistfight with a guy who said that my Fillory and Further backpack was for babies. So I wound up and _boom_ ”—Quentin balled his hand into a fist then shot it forward into the space in front of him, miming a devastating-looking uppercut—“punched him, right in the kisser, as hard as I could.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm,” said Quentin, taking a moment to suck a bead of blood from his palm, “but he was older, and taller, so my hand kind of just—y’know, bounced off of him. I felt like the Dread Pirate Roberts, but he was Fezzik. So I swung at him, but I completely lost my balance. I ended up falling and cracking the shit out of my front tooth on the edge of the jungle gym.” Quentin bared his teeth and pointed to his front right tooth. “It was just a baby tooth but, man, my mom was so pissed.”

Eliot snorted a laugh. “I was fully prepared to be surprised by this story, but, uh—it’s remarkably on-brand.”

Quentin shrugged, “Your job is to ask the questions, mine’s to provide the answers.”

“Touche.” Eliot stepped gingerly over a downed branch and held his hand out. Quentin passed him the tea. “You really won’t tell me where we’re going?”

“I did tell you,” said Quentin. “It’s a magic pond—or uh, more like a spring? And we’re going to swim in it.”

“Sure, okay, that’s great and all,” Eliot hummed. “But what kind of magic? I want to know what I’m getting into before I peel down to my birthday suit and jump in. Make sure this isn’t some ruse to turn me into a frog or something.”

“If this was all a ruse to transform you into a frog, would I really tell you?” Quentin mused.

“No,” Eliot admitted. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

They walked for a while longer in comfortable silence before Eliot finally asked: “Will you tell me about your mom?”

“Oh,” said Quentin, “uh.”  He made a face like Eliot had just asked him to eat a worm.

“Sorry,” said Eliot quickly.

“No,” said Quentin. “It’s okay. I want you to feel like you can ask me about stuff.” He kicked at the foliage as he walked, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “I just—don’t really know her? She’s been gone since I was pretty young, and since then it’s just been the occasional, uh, birthday card. Or birthday phone call, if I’m particularly lucky.”

Quentin caught sight of the frown on Eliot’s face and waved a hand at him, “I’m not trying to sound pitiful. It just is what it is. She decided she didn’t want to be a mom, and I’m not going to let her choice dictate my own happiness for the rest of my life. That would be crazy.”

Eliot nodded. “Do you ever miss her?” 

“No,” said Quentin plainly. “It’s hard to miss someone you’ve never really had a relationship with. Sometimes I think I might miss the _idea_ of her.” At Eliot’s raised eyebrow, he explained: “I remember growing up seeing moms on TV—Vivian Banks or, like, Tami Taylor. Moms who actually gave a shit about their kids, who gave them tough-love advice and worried about them if they didn’t come home by curfew.”

Eliot thought about his mother: rough handed from farm work, gruff but well-meaning. He thought about the times he crawled into bed with her when he was little, scared by the howling wolves outside, invisible in the moonlight amongst the dark, swaying crops.

He remembered the sound of her voice when she told him she loved him.

He wondered if Quentin had that memory, and then immediately regretted wondering.

“When I was growing up, I wished I had one of those TV moms and felt ripped off because I didn’t have this _thing_ that I thought everybody else had.” Quentin shook his head. “But then I grew up and realized that most people don’t have that. Not even if both of their parents technically stuck around.”

“Yeah,” said Eliot quietly. “Yeah, that’s true.”

Quentin nodded. His ears were red, and he blew out a breath and paused for a moment before adding: “Maybe I do miss her. But it’s like feeling nostalgia for someone I’ve never known. It’s artificial.” He sniffed and then angrily cleared his throat, seeming frustrated at the thickness in his voice.

“Thank you for answering my question,” Eliot murmured, brushing Quentin’s elbow with his own.

Quentin shrugged, yanking the rucksack straps into a more comfortable position on his shoulders. “Sorry I didn’t have a more interesting answer.”

In the near distance, the din of rushing water grew louder.

“We’re close,” said Quentin, picking up speed. There was a hop to his step; it was eager and strangely unfamiliar and Eliot did his best to keep up.

A hundred yards further, navigating their way over rotten logs and dried-out streams (“Be careful,” said Eliot, reaching out to offer a steadying hand, but Quentin ignored him and pressed on), and the thick brush of the forest suddenly opened up to reveal the spring: sunlit, lush and breathtakingly green.

Quentin and Eliot emerged from the trees and stepped onto the pebbled beach. The sunlight streamed through the gap in the treeline, washing over them like a warm welcome.  

“Jesus,” breathed Eliot.

He’d never considered himself much of a nature person. 'Outdoorsy' was never part of his vocabulary. In spite of many years spent waking up at four in the morning to work the farm, or maybe because of them, he always considered himself more of an indoor kid.

Now, he realized that a year in Fillory had done a number on him: more and more often, the Fillorian landscape left him breathless. The scene in front of them now was no different.

A deep pool of gently eddying water stretched in front of them, and at the far end was a waterfall that looked like something out of a Tolkein novel: majestic and ancient and like it had existed for a thousand years already and would exist for a thousand years after they were long dead.

Quentin and Eliot stood on the only shore; the rest of the spring was enclosed with sheer walls covered in a lush carpet of climbing ivy. It felt like a pocket of perfect safety and silence, except for the bubble and rush of the falls.

“This is it,” said Quentin, tossing his rucksack to the ground.

He didn’t waste any time yanking his shirt over his head and pulling off his pants, and then his underwear, and then finally remembering to also take off his boots before wading in, the softly-rounded pebbles crunching quietly underfoot.

“Is it cold?” Eliot called out, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

“I’m not answering that,” Quentin called back. He moved quickly and, within seconds, he was up to his waist in the water. He was putting on a good show, but Eliot was pretty sure he could see Quentin clenching his jaw shut to keep his teeth from chattering.

“You’re so full of shit,” Eliot grumbled, balancing on one foot to yank off his final sock. He placed it on top of his own folded clothes, then took a moment to put Quentin’s messy pile of clothes in order, tucking them into a neat stack next to Quentin’s scuffed-up Keebler boots.

Eliot felt very, very naked. He closed his eyes: the beach was sunwarmed, the perfectly-smooth stones were pleasing under his bare feet, and even from yards away, he could feel like cooling mist of the waterfall on his skin.

Out in the middle of the spring, Quentin splashed and paddled around, a giant grin on his face. “Get in here!”

Eliot crouched down to dip his fingers in the stream. As suspected, it was colder than a witch’s tit. It did, however, feel magical: magic coursed through it like a pulse, tickling at his fingertips and drawing him in.

“I just want to confirm that you promise on George R. R. Martin’s grave that I’m not going to turn into a frog or be a blood sacrifice to Fillorian Nessie?”

“Pretty sure he’s not dead, but you have my word. On both counts.”

“And if I pee in it, I won’t contract a curse that will make my dick shrivel and fall off?”

Quentin barked a laugh and dipped his head under the water. After a few long seconds, he emerged with a shocked gasp before paddling back towards the shore, where Eliot stood, up to his ankles in cold, emerald water and pathetically attempting to look natural and confident with his own nudity.

When Quentin stood up out of the water, he was radiant in the afternoon light and Eliot let his eyes roam hungrily over him: he was utterly aglow, like there was a roaring fire lit under his skin, with water clinging to his eyelashes like dewdrops and streaming down his chest in little rivulets.

“Come on in,” said Quentin. He moved closer and extended his hand toward Eliot. “The water is fine.”

Whether it was the magic in the water, or the opium in the air, Eliot was certain of one thing: Quentin looked unearthly, like a siren luring him to an intoxicating, watery fate.

Without hesitation, Eliot took Quentin’s hand and let him lead him the way.

The cold bite of the water quickly gave way to something beautiful and indescribable (but he was willing to try): it felt like summer rain, and lemonade on a hot day, and finally catching the eye of someone you’ve desired from afar. It felt like first kisses, and happy goodbyes.

It felt like being in exactly the right place, with exactly the right person.

The strength of the magic flowing through the water took him by surprise. Fillory radiated magic, but this was something else. It tugged at him playfully, like an impatient child at the circus, making the tips of his fingers tingle and itch. He could feel the meridians in his body pulsing with energy, as if the physiological ley lines buried under his skin had been reawakened.

Eliot dipped his head underwater, almost subconsciously wishing to be closer to the magic—to be enveloped by it. When he emerged, Quentin pressed a cool kiss to his lips. “I’m happy you came with me.”

“Me too.” Eliot closed his eyes again and breathed in a lungful of verdant air. “This place is incredible. It’s fucking magical in, like, all of the literal and figurative senses.”

They had drifted deep enough out that, nervously, he had to reach the tips of his toes down to the rockbed bottom of the spring to keep his head and shoulders above the surface. In front of him, Quentin was effortlessly treading water in a way that suggested many summers spent in neighbourhood community centre swim lessons.

Quentin swam closer. He reached out and grasped Eliot by the shoulder to keep from floating away in the gently flowing water, and Eliot’s hand slipped up to brush Quentin’s ribcage. His skin prickled with goosebumps under his touch, and Eliot pulled him closer.

So quietly that Eliot had to strain to hear him over the sound of the falls, he said: “I’m glad I’m here with you.”

“I’m glad you put up with my whining this morning and let me come with,” Eliot joked, pressing a kiss to the corner of Quentin’s mouth, but Quentin shook his head.

“I mean  _here_ here. In Fillory.” He avoided Eliot’s gaze, adding, “Out of anyone, I’m really fucking glad I’m here with you, El.”

“Oh.”

Eliot’s breath hitched.

Over the last year-and-change, a dark thought had brewed in the most secret part of his brain. It took shape like a spectre as he slowly convinced himself that the only reason he was lucky enough to have the fucking _opportunity_ to touch Quentin—not just touch him, to love him and know him—was because the quest had non-consensually shoved them together and trapped them in another time, place, _world_.

Eliot felt like a disgusting opportunist, taking advantage of a desert-island scenario that left Quentin vulnerable and stranded with no other ( _better_ ) option.

He tried to beat the guilty thoughts back whenever they reared their ugly head, but still he wondered: _Did I will this into existence? Did I curse him with my wanting?_ In the same way kids wonder if it was all their fault for not eating their broccoli or saying their prayers before bed when bad things happen. It was a crazy, illogical, selfish thought. But then again, they were trapped in an alternate dimension surrounded by cobbler elves and talking bears. At this point, Eliot’s threshold for crazy was pretty fucking high.

Most days, however, he was able to beat back the dark thoughts by reminding himself:

Quentin was here with him.

Quentin loved him.

He loved Quentin back.

Quentin was happy.

Quentin was  _healthy_.

Now, he pulled Quentin into a hug, tangling his fingers in Quentin’s matted-wet hair, and whispered against his ear: “Me too, puppy. Me too.”

They stayed that way for a long while: warm, slippery skin pressed together in cold water, the immediacy of their thoughts drowned out by the constant, soothing white noise of the falls, only occasionally pierced by the sound of songbirds sweetly singing to each other across the clearing.

“Will you tell me what you thought when you first saw me?” Quentin's breath was hot on Eliot’s shoulder. He dragged his teeth not-quite-gently against the sensitive skin in the dip above Eliot's clavicle, eliciting a shiver.

“At Brakebills?”

Eliot felt Quentin nod.

He nosed against Quentin’s temple. “I thought you were beautiful”—he pressed a kiss to Quentin’s cool skin, over his eyebrow—“and intriguing”—another kiss, between Quentin’s eyes—“and I immediately began plotting an intricate plan to make you fall head-over-heels in lust with me.”

“You’re supposed to tell the truth,” said Quentin, quietly.

“I know,” said Eliot. “I am.”

He was.

 

* * *

 

Quentin and Eliot sat at the edge of the sharp bank overlooking spring, where the grass was soft under their feet and the warm sun could still reach them under the canopy of leaves overhead. The clearing echoed with bullfrogs singing their mating call as they sat in easy silence: Eliot’s hand rested on Quentin’s knee, his thumb brushing mindlessly against the knobby bits.

This is what Plato, or Socrates, or whomever the fuck was talking about when he wrote about paradise: comfortable silence, skin on skin, and the overwhelming feeling of safety. This was hyper-heaven, this was the realm of forms and perfect beauty.

Oh, and there was wine, too. That was nice.

“It’s beautiful here,” said Eliot, gesturing at Quentin to hold out his cup so that he could offer him a top-up.

Quentin didn’t seem to hear him at all, and Eliot watched Quentin’s face and waited for a response: he was gazing across the water, an unreadable expression pulling at the corners of his eyes.

“Hey you,” said Eliot, letting go of Quentin’s knee to brush his elbow. Quentin suddenly seemed to register his voice, and turned toward him.

“Sorry—what did you say?”

Eliot lifted the wine bottle again and, this time, Quentin allowed him to fill his cup. “Thanks,” he said, his voice faraway-sounding. He took a sip and made a small face; it was nice to have wine, even if most Fillorian wine was, generously, complete dogshit.

“You’re welcome,” said Eliot. He filled his own glass and took a long, desperate sip ( _Jesus Christ it had been so long since they’d last had wine_ ), then gently added: “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Wordlessly, Quentin stretched his arm toward Eliot, his palm turned up toward the sky. In the diffuse afternoon light, Eliot could see the scars on his arm: the ones from before he knew Quentin, and the ones from afterward.

The three—those _three_ , from _that night—_ stood out, all in a row, silvery against Quentin’s tanned skin and Eliot thought, nostalgically, that he could smell the musty warmth of the Cottage again.

That, and Quentin’s blood.

Eliot circled Quentin’s slim wrist with his fingers questioningly, but Quentin shook his head and opened his hand wide, revealing that the angry scrape was gone.

Without a trace, without a hint.

Quentin began to laugh: a quiet, silent kind of laugh that started deep in his chest but didn’t quite make it to his throat. And then, for just a second, something shifted in Quentin’s expression. His eyes got darker, and Eliot thought that maybe he had started to cry. But then Quentin rubbed at his eyes and smiled at Eliot, leaning forward to kiss him, soft and needy, the ends of his cold, wet hair tickling against Eliot’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Eliot murmured, lifting one hand to brush Quentin’s hair behind his ear.

“Yeah,” whispered Quentin. He pressed his forehead against Eliot’s.

“Will you tell me why we’re here?”

Quentin nodded. “This is the Healing Spring,” he explained, pulling away to focus his gaze on his feet: the pads of his toes were still pale and wrinkly from the water. “It’s like a cure light wounds spell except, like, even more minor. I heard from someone in town that the Chatwins used to swim in it to clear their hormonal acne. I guess pizza-faced teenage royalty is bad optics. Anyway. It picks something small—a blemish, or a scrape”—he took a deep breath. “Or a scar.”

Eliot’s eyes flicked up to catch Quentin’s. Quentin just shrugged at him.

“You don’t get to ask for anything in particular. The spring just picks something that’s not quite right and fixes it.” He looked at his arm and made a sound, again, something that was too hollow and cold to be laughter. “I thought I could get rid of them,” he said bitterly.

Eliot nodded. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say anything, anyway.

There were other scars, near The Three, some from shallower cuts, some deeper. Eliot tried not to focus too hard on the newer ones.

The ones that Quentin made while Eliot was supposed to be paying more attention, but was too wrapped up in god knows what. What the fuck else could he have possibly been doing while Quentin was hurting himself? He wondered about all the places he’d been while Quentin was in the bathroom, in the bedroom, in a quiet part of the library, cutting himself open. He imagined himself brushing his teeth, oblivious while it happened, or asleep in bed—

“Sometimes I worry that they make you love me less,” said Quentin matter-of-factly, interrupting Eliot's spiralling thoughts. It wasn’t a question, but Eliot wasn’t about to let that stop him.

“Never,” said Eliot fiercely. “I worry, that’s all. But never that.”

Quentin seemed to accept the answer, nodding. “So what about you?"

“Hmm?” Raising an eyebrow, Eliot necked the last of his wine.

Jerking his head toward the water, Quentin clarified: “The spring. What’d it fix for you?”

“Oh,” said Eliot. He didn’t feel different; rotating his right wrist, he could still feel the ache-y tinge of carpal tunnel. The sneaky eyebrow zit he’d discovered that morning was still going strong. Flexing his hands and stretching his legs out, he frowned: “I have no fucking clue. Maybe I wasn’t pure of heart enough to get a blessing?”

“I don’t think the spring cares about moral high-ground.” Quentin laughed.

“Lucky for me, then. Oh!” said Eliot again, sliding one hand over his elbow. “Holy shit,” he added. “Feel that?” He grabbed Quentin’s hand and placed it on his elbow, rolling the pads of his fingertips against the soft spot near his funny-bone.

“Feels like an elbow,” Quentin agreed. Eliot smacked him on the hip.

“I asked you about schoolyard injuries but didn’t get to tell you about mine. In seventh grade, this guy who used to bully me—Brant Davis, he had a _rat tail_ , for fuck’s sake—shoved me in front of the whole school. I fell down and skinned my elbow,” Eliot craned his neck to try and see if the scar was still there, but it was a bad angle, “and a pebble got stuck under my skin. Never came back out, until, uh, now.” He prodded at the spot where the rock used to be: “Is it weird that I kind of miss it? I used to call him Rocky.”

“It’s not weird. Humans are weird. We can get attached to anything,” Quentin smiled at him, then leaned in to kiss him again, all hard and soft at the same time. It wasn’t long before the sun would start to go down, and Quentin tasted like red wine and sex and ancient magic. Eliot wanted to ravage him.

“I want to ravage you,” said Eliot.

“Good,” said Quentin. “Let’s go home.” He stood and offered his hand to Eliot, who took it.

The air was still warm, and the spring was so beautiful as the sun began to wane, and Eliot was immediately certain of two things:

First, that he was in love.

Second, that he would keep taking Quentin’s hand and following him wherever he went, for as long as Quentin would let him.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love it if you threw out some ideas for potential questions. Play with me?


End file.
